


Out of That Story

by In_Time_of_Peril



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Clew Who, Episode: s09e05 The Girl Who Died, F/F, F/M, Gen, I mean we know Ace had Viking antecedants, If someone comes up with a great fanon name for Lofty's daughter, Multi, Other, Since we're referencing Ace's Viking ancestry minorly, TELL ME!, That's what happens when Classic and New Who meet, The Curse of Fenric, Who's to say other companions didn't?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Time_of_Peril/pseuds/In_Time_of_Peril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories are what build the world. And stories can last forever.</p>
<p>(Also, the Doctor's influence is creepily EVERYWHERE)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of That Story

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone comes up with a great name for Lofty's daughter, I'll be so happy. Anyway, obviously, spoilers for _The Girl Who Died_ , as well as referential spoilers to Amy and Rory's fate (but if you don't know that, well, you'll catch up on the show one day).
> 
> Anthony Williams comes, of course, from the story-boarded-but-unfilmed short _P.S._ Kathleen Anabel Bush is my OC daughter of Mel and Ace, but anyone's really welcome to use a variation on her, I suppose.

The girl grows up, strong like her mother, always a bit big for her age, but then, her father is tall. She has friends, other children who, like her, settle down for an evening in the hall and listen to the stories that are told. Sometimes a mother tells the stories (oh, and they're all the most beautiful, wisest mother; all mothers, the good mothers, the kind mothers, are the most beautiful), and sometimes a father tells them (and they're all the bravest, kindest fathers; all fathers, the strong fathers, the sweet fathers, are the bravest). Sometimes, it's a warrior, and he might be a father, or an uncle; she might be a mother, or an aunt.

The best times, though, are when Ashildr comes forward and sits and tells stories. Her stories are wonderful, full of ferocious creatures and brave people and strange, silly visitors who make no sense even as they help to save the day.

She speaks, sometimes, of the false Odin. He came with his warriors and tried to destroy these people, these mothers and fathers and children, but in the end, with just the power of a mind, he was driven back. And who was the hero of the day, at the last, but Ashildr herself?

"Stories," she always says, "are what shape the world."

And the little girl at the front of the crowd turns and looks to her father, the blacksmith, and he nods. Yes, it's true, he'll say later, for he was there.

* * *

The girl grows up, and she marries. Her new husband is young and strong and kind. She will go with him, later, to his own village, but for now, they are still at her home. Her father is there, proud and trying not to show tears, and her mother is there, smiling and embracing her when all is said and done.

And Ashildr is there. When the girl was young, still really a girl and not the woman she is now, she thought Ashildr grown up, as old as her parents. Now, though, she sees the truth. Ashildr has not changed, ever. She is still young, still like a child in many ways. But still she is good, and kind, and brave. Still she tells the stories.

* * *

The girl, the woman, is a mother now, with many little ones at her feet. She tells them stories, and they laugh, or shiver, and beg for more, and more, until their father comes and carts them off to their beds.

"Is it true?" her husband asks later, in the quietness, when the night's loving is over.

"Is what true?" the woman asks.

"The stories. About False Odin and his beasts and the dragon-that-was-not. Is it true?"

The woman shrugs and shifts closer into her husband's arms.

"My father always said so."

* * *

Her children are grown now, and have spread to the winds. She is not so very old yet, though of course she realises that what once was old to her now seems but a speck of a lifetime.

Of her family, her mother remains, now very old indeed, but still with a sparkle in her eyes. The woman's father, the tall, quiet blacksmith, is long gone, having lived a long, goodly life. Her husband is gone too, lost with a shipful of his fellows too many seasons ago for her to properly recall.

Some of her children are not so far away, and they have children. Even the oldest grandchild will be a parent soon. And she has told them all the stories, particularly that most important story. The strange man and his friend, the False Odin, the dragon-that-was-not. And Ashildr; she has told them about Ashildr.

One evening, just at dusk, she peers out of her home and sees a figure, hooded, stooping, hurry through the village. They glance up and, for a moment, she knows them, knows that the story must be true.

Sometimes, things happen. Sometimes a curse comes disguised as a blessing.

The next morning, the great-grandchild is born, a girl with a fine down of red-gold hair on her head. The gods are thanked, for mother and child are both well and healthy.

The woman looks down at this new little life, and she really sees for the first time the wrinkles on her own hands as they touch the smooth, tiny face.

Lives can be long, but in the grand scheme they are short, and meant to be that way.

* * *

The blood of the woman has spread through the world, has poured down the ages through her children and grandchildren. The tree of that family is almost as great as Yggdrasil itself. Its branches are warriors, and scholars, and builders, and leaders, and criminals, and just regular people, eeking out a life.

Always with them, all over the world, someday all over the cosmos, go the stories.

* * *

A tall woman, beautiful, with hair like fire, sits in a house in a time not her own, and tells the stories to a child who is her own, if not of her body. Her husband, the child's father in name if not in blood, sits too, and listens, and wonders if the story is true.

"Do you suppose," he begins, and she looks up to him and smiles.

"It must've been him," she says.

Her husband shakes his head.

"Doctor," he sighs. And then he frowns.  
"What about that girl?"

"We can't all get everything right, Rory," Amy says, then takes Anthony upstairs to tuck him in.

* * *

There is another house, in another part of the same world, in another time. A woman, not so tall, but with hair like fire just the same, sits curled on a sofa. Her child is on her lap, snuggled close, begging for another story. And so she tells the little girl about "long ago and far away", and repeats a story heard from her uncle long ago.

Across the room the child's other parent, dark of hair, tense of stance, old as you can imagine but still young enough of face, looks up.

"Where did you hear that?" she asks.

The mother, the one telling the story, looks up.

"My Uncle John. It's been in the family for ages."

The dark-haired woman frowns and stands and paces over to the sofa. The child is whimpering, not liking the disruption (that comes from the red-haired mother), but a rough palm tousling her hair gently, certainly, calms her.

"I know that story too," the dark-haired parent says.  
"My mum - and Nan..."

"A lot of people know the same stories," the red-head says.

"Yeah, but this one sounds like..."

"He's everywhere, Ace. I wouldn't be surprised."

And while Mel goes back to telling Kathleen the story, Ace wanders off to ponder just how deeply the Doctor is tangled in their lives.

* * *

A man of mature age, at least by appearance, sits in a very comfortable chair in an old room that's situated impossibly deep inside what seems to be an old, battered blue police phone box. He runs a hand through his hair. When last he sat in this chair, his hair was longer, though he's been growing it again, just lately. Of course, the last time it was longer and he sat in this chair, he had a different face.

He sits, this man, and he ponders. He wants to tell a story. It's a story he knows well, for he saw it, was a part of it. And you really ought to have someone to tell a story too, but for the moment, he's alone. His friend, his companion, is off leading her own life for a little time.

The man closes his eyes, tight as he can, and reaches deep into his mind. He conjures up a lot of children. Some were his, in blood, though removed perhaps by a generation. And some were just lost youngsters he met and protected for a time.

Some are distinctly not children, at least by appearance, but he knows, the man knows, that we all have the remains of the child we were in us.

"Once," he whispers, "a very long time ago..."

He stops, opens his eyes, glances at an advanced piece of equipment on the far wall, and sighs.

"Fine," he says. He closes his eyes again, sees all of those faces watching him.  
"Once, next Tuesday, there was a village..."


End file.
